Chapter 34 Nightmares
Nightmares
The next morning
Muffled sounds drifted through the quiet apartment, low and broken.
I stirred from my sleep, realizing that I’d fallen asleep on the couch watching ballet performances ofThe Rite of Spring.
I needed to be able to emulate the essence of the performance—that rawness was unfortunately the one thing I couldn’t fake.
I made my way to the fridge to grab a glass of water and that was when I saw a cutout from the Julliard newsletter pasted on the fridge. It read:
YEO LEGACY: YESOH YEO TO PLAY THE CHOSEN ONE IN CLASSIC BALLET THE RIGHT OF SPRING.
In tiny writing it said “our Yesoh.” My brother and boyfriend could be so sweet when they wanted to be; it was wonderful to know that I had them right beside me. A lump rose in my throat—to be loved is indeed to be known, to be seen.
Just then I heard it.
At first, I thought I had imagined it, the remnants of a dream.
But then I heard it again—I choked gasp, almost inaudible, but unmistakably pained.
My heart clenched. I got up and made my way down the hall, a chill down my spine towards Wynter’s bedroom.
His door was open, and there was only a faint light from the lamp on his bedside, spilling out into the dark hallway.
I hesitated for a second before stepping inside.
Wynter was tangled in his sheets, his body tossing and turning his hair stuck to his forehead with perspiration.
“Wynter,” I whispered, taking a step closer.
“Don’t,” a voice interrupted from behind me. I turned around and saw Cahya in a nightgown with sleepy eyes standing in the doorway.
“What do you mean, don’t?” I puzzled.
“He’s dreaming,” he said simply, “it happens sometimes, he’ll wake up on his own.”
I frowned, glancing back at my boyfriend. “But he looks like he’s in pain…”
“He is,” Cahya responded matter-of-factly. “ It’s a nightmare, and this isn’t the first time. It’s better to let him go through the motions than to wake him up. Trust me, I’ve tried both.”
I felt a knot in my gut as I watched Wynter fight with his own mind, clawing at his sheets, pained sounds escaping his lips.
“How are we to just sit back and watch, do nothing?” I asked my voice spiteful.
Cahya sighed. “It’s not about staying idle and doing nothing. It’s about knowing what he needs, and right now he needs to finish this on his own. Waking him up in the middle of it could make it worse.”
I couldn’t afford to argue with my brother; he sounded like he’d seen this a thousand times before and he was so very certain.
“Is it always this bad?” I wondered, wanting to leap into Wynter’s dreamscape and make it stop.
“It isn’t always, but when it is, you just have to wait it out, he’ll come out of it eventually, and when he does, that’s when you can help.”
“Everything that happened…it really did hit him the hardest,” I said, and Cahya stilled at how freely I spoke about it all.
“Don’t think it, don’t—”
“Yeah, well, Wynter clearly is,” I deadpanned. “How can we not? The silence may have worked as a coping mechanism for all of us, but clearly it is eating him alive.”
“Beck thought it was best for Bae, she was only fifteen at the time, so did Sydney and Jax—”
“They aren’t the only ones that lost that day,” I reminded him,. “Have you ever thought about how you feel? They don’t get to decide how we grieve.”
I glanced back at Wynter, my chest tightening at the sight of him, struggling with the same nightmare.
He was forced to relive it all the time.
I wanted to reach out to shake him awake, to pull him out of whatever dark place he been dragged into, but I forced myself to stay still and trust my brother’s judgment
“Does he talk about it?” I question just as Beck had asked me because perhaps he’d find it easier to be open with his best friend than his girlfriend.
“No.” Cahya cleared his throat.
We stood there in silence, and watched as he slowly started to breathe normally and the tension in his body eased just enough for him to settle.
“There, he’s waking up.” I exhale a breath I didn’t even realize that I was holding.
“He’s probably going to feel like hell when he wakes up, just be patient with him. Okay? He hates feeling vulnerable, but he hates pity even more.”
I nodded, watching as Wynter’s brow furrowed slightly, his lashes fluttering against his pale cheeks. “I can do that,” I said.
Cahya gave me a small smile before slipping out of the room, leaving me alone with Wynter. I moved closer to the bed, pulling a chair up and sitting down. He fell back asleep. His breathing was more even now, but his face still looked troubled, even in sleep.
I stayed there, watching over him, waiting for the moment when he’d wake and need me. I laid down on the couch in the corner of his bedroom and dozed off with a novel.
I woke to the unmistakable sound of dry heaving, sharp and desperate. For a moment, I thought I’d dreamed it, but then came another strained gag, echoing from the bathroom. My heart sank.
I hurried down the hall, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
I found Wynter hunched over the sink, his pale hands gripping the edges so hard his knuckles looked ready to burst through the skin.
His face was ghostly white, his damp hair plastered to his forehead, and his whole body trembled like a leaf in the wind.
“Wynter,” I said, my voice soft but firm, stepping into the bathroom.
He flinched at the sound, shaking his head quickly without looking at me. “I’m fine,” he rasped, though the quaver in his voice betrayed him. He didn’t sound fine—he sounded like someone on the edge of losing control.
I ignored his protest and came closer. “You’re not fine,” I said, brushing a hand against his back. He jolted slightly at the contact, but I kept my touch steady, rubbing small, slow circles.
He straightened just enough to glare at the faucet, then doubled over again, gagging harshly but producing nothing. His breaths were shallow and quick, and I could see the effort it took to keep from spiraling.
“Deep breaths,” I murmured, crouching beside him. “You need to slow down.”
“I can’t,” he whispered. He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing convulsively, as if sheer willpower alone could stop the nausea. “I feel like I’m going to—” He broke off, sucking in a sharp breath.
“It’s okay,” I said, reaching up to gather his hair in my hands, pulling it back from his face. His dark strands were damp with sweat, sticking to my fingers, but I didn’t let go. “If you’re sick, you’re sick. Just let it happen if you need to.”
He shook his head weakly, his chest rising and falling in uneven waves. “I don’t want to,” he whispered.
“I know.” I smoothed a hand down his back, feeling the tension beneath his skin. “But fighting it is just going to make you feel worse.”
“I want it to stop…” he breathed, shaking his head.
“I know, Wyn, I’m sorry, baby.”
He didn’t respond, just leaned forward again, clutching the sink like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His whole body tensed, and I thought this time he might actually throw up, but after a few moments, he slumped back, gasping for air.
“Sorry,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.
“Don’t apologize,” I said immediately. “This isn’t your fault.”
He nodded faintly but didn’t look at me. “It was the dream,” he admitted after a beat, his voice thick and shaky. “I—” He broke off, closing his eyes and breathing carefully through his nose.
“I know. Take your time,” I said, keeping my tone even.
For a few long moments, the only sound was his unsteady breathing. Then he whispered, “It was so real this time. I see it whenever I close my eyes, pretending it never happened is so hard, this time I couldn’t get out of it.”
I nodded, though I knew he wasn’t looking at me. “You’re out now,” I said gently. “You’re safe. It’s just your body catching up.”
He let out a shuddering breath, his hands loosening their grip on the sink just a fraction. “My sisters,” he mumbled suddenly, blinking as if coming out of a daze. “They’re supposed to come over—”
“They’re not here yet,” I interrupted, squeezing his shoulder lightly. “And when they get here, they’ll understand if you’re not up for company.”
“No,” he said quickly, his voice still strained. “I’ll be fine by then. I just—” He broke off again, turning around to face me with strained eyes, flushed cheeks, leaning tiredly against the sink.
I stood up and shifted so I was standing behind him, one hand steadying his shoulder while the other kept his hair away from his face. “Wynter, you don’t have to push yourself for anyone, okay? Not for me, not for them. They’d rather know you’re resting than see you like this.”
He hesitated, pinching the bridge of his nose as another wave of nausea hit him. “I don’t want them to see me like this,” he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I know,” I said, leaning closer so my cheek almost brushed his temple. “But right now, you need to take care of yourself. You’re allowed to have bad mornings, Wyn. You don’t have to do this alone.”
He closed his eyes, his head dropping forward. For a moment, he just breathed, slowly and deeply, as I held him steady. Then he whispered, “Thanks, Yesoh.”
I smiled faintly, though he couldn’t see it. “Always.”
When his breathing evened out a little more, I gave his shoulder a light squeeze. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed. I’ll bring you some water.”
He didn’t argue this time, letting me guide him out of the bathroom. I stayed close, my hand resting lightly on his back, ready to catch him if he stumbled.
As I settled him onto the bed, I saw the exhaustion in his face, the shadows of the nightmare still clinging to him. But he looked at me with something softer in his eyes—trust, maybe, or something close to it.
“Do you want to tell me what you saw?” I asked him, grabbing ahold of both his hands staring deeply into his weary eyes.
“It was that day.” He told me, “4th of December, winter 2017.”
“I see.” I looked down.